


You and God both got the gun

by SecondStarOnTheLeft



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Minor canon divergence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-12
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-03-30 04:15:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3922501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecondStarOnTheLeft/pseuds/SecondStarOnTheLeft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Stop profiling me, Spencer," she said, "and stop scratching at your hand."</p><p>He stopped, letting his hands rest in his lap for a minute - her foot was tucked under his thigh, and her gun was hanging off the bedpost, and the scars on her hand were smooth and uneven under his fingers when he reached over and traced his fingertips over her palm and up her wrist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Amplification

**Author's Note:**

> This is a very serious reworking of a previous Reid/OC series of mine, the Surprises series - but don't expect much of it to be the same, aside from certain aspects of Marianne's character :)
> 
> Takes place directly post-Amplification.
> 
> Title from "Hurricane" by Panic! at the Disco

She let herself in - it looked like all the lights were off, but as soon as she opened the door she could see the soft glow of Spencer's nightlight coming from the crack under his bedroom door - and locked and bolted the door behind her. It wasn't like him to not bolt the door, but at least he'd set the alarm, and she couldn't help but smile when the code was the same as it had been last time she visited.

It was good to see that some things didn't change, even when everything else had.

Marianne dropped her keys and her badge into the deep dish under the lamp by the couch, where Spencer kept  _his_ keys and badge, where they couldn't be fished from the tiny window by the door, or from the big window overlooking the tiny shared garden.

She kept her gun on her belt. She figured that Spencer would hang his on the headboard, so he wouldn't mind her doing the same.

He was curled up on his side, tiny and tangle-haired under his soft, thick comforter, something that always amazed her - he was so tall that it seemed ridiculous that he could appear so small, but he had a knack for it. Marianne had always wondered if maybe it was something to do with his high school experience, with having to try and make himself as small and unnoticeable as possible, but she'd never asked. He didn't like talking about high school, and she didn't like to push him when there was no reason to.

She tugged the comforter down just enough to expose his shoulder - no pyjamas. Good. 

His gun was hanging over his head, just like she'd assumed it would be, so she hung her own on the opposite bed post, stripped down to her panties, and slid under the cover to curl against his back. He was warm - a little too warm, really - and there was a heavy bandage wrapped around one of his hands. He felt skinny, not in the normal way, but in the way he only got after he'd been sick, and his hair was too long.  _Way_ too long. She'd always preferred it a little shorter.

"You stupid bastard," she whispered, tucking her nose against the back of his neck and tugging the comforter up around them both. "How  _dare_ you get sick and not tell me."

 

* * *

 

For one bright, horrifying second, Spencer thought he was tied up somewhere.

Then he remembered just how strong Marianne's arms were, and he relaxed back into the warmth of her body. 

"Morning, asshole," she said against his ear, pinching him in the ribs. "Good to see you've survived exposure to  _bioweapons."_

He rolled over to look at her then, a little embarrassed and a little horrified, because he'd wanted to tell her why he was in hospital,  _but_ it was. Well, it was a matter of national security!  _  
_

"You don't know that," he said, sitting up and trying very hard to not follow the falling comforter when she sat up, too. "You  _can't_ know that. I'll get  _fired_ if you know that."

"I may or may not have kind of broken into some locked files when I heard your name mentioned in connection with a domestic terror alert," Marianne said defensively, setting his glasses on his nose and working hard not to smile. "I do work in counter-terrorism, sweetheart, I  _know_ things."

With his glasses on, he could see her properly - see that she hadn't slept well, because her hair was in a ponytail and she only ever tied it up when she was having trouble getting to sleep, and because there were deep circles under her dark eyes. He could see that she'd had to use different washing detergent, because some of her scars were irritated, the skin scaled and flaking and sore looking. He could see-

"Stop profiling me, Spencer," she said, "and stop scratching at your hand."

He stopped, letting his hands rest in his lap for a minute - her foot was tucked under his thigh, and her gun was hanging off the bedpost, and the scars on her hand were smooth and uneven under his fingers when he reached over and traced his fingertips over her palm and up her wrist.

"I've missed you," she said. "I would have come sooner, but I was embedded in-"

"You could lose your job if I know that," he pointed out, nudging closer, letting his fingers trail up to the inside of her elbow, where a knot of scar tissue was deep purple against the reddish-brown of the rest. "Want to shower instead of talking about work?"

"Will you join me?" she teased, pushing up onto her knees and and leaning over him, arms around his shoulders. "You've got to be just as antsy as me-"

"And you want someone to wash your hair," he said, letting his hands settle on her waist, spreading his fingers wide to touch as much of her as he could. "You'll have to get started ahead of me so I can change to a waterproof bandage-"

"Wouldn't want to give your girlfriend Anthrax, right?"

 

* * *

 

There was music playing when Derek and Penelope arrived at Reid's.

"Is that what I think it is?" Derek asked, because even if Reid had somehow broke his radio so it was stuck on a top 40 station, Derek knew his boy, and Spencer Reid would rather turn off his radio than listen to  _this._

"That is indeed Lady GaGa, my love," Penelope said breezily, clicking up to the door in her sunflower-yellow heels and knocking loud and clear. " _LoveGame,_ if I know my pop music, and I do."

The idea of Reid listening to Lady GaGa was one of the most uncomfortable things Derek had ever encountered, and he was more than a little relieved that Reid shut off the radio before coming to answer the door.

Wow.

"Hello, Doctor Love," Derek said, pushing his sunglasses up his forehead to take in Reid's... Everything. He'd never seen anyone who'd so clearly had a good night before, not unless they'd spent that night in his bed, and Reid looked a little dazed. 

Man, that was a  _lot_ of hickies.

"Nice of you to drop by," he said, unusually cheerful - Derek knew Spencer wasn't usually this gracious this early without a lot of coffee, and with hair that wet and hickies that fresh, there was no  _way_ he'd had enough coffee. Then again, hickies meant sex, and sex meant endorphins, so...

He'd only been in Spencer's place a couple of times before, and had been struck every time by how neat it was - practically hospital clean, everything just so - but it wasn't like that this morning. This morning, there was what looked like egg all over the little kitchen, and a huge stack of French toast on the coffee table, and a lady with a whole lot of black hair on the couch.

"You want breakfast?" Reid asked. "We've got eggs, or French toast - and lots of coffee. And hazelnut milk. Marianne brought it back from her run." 

"I'm guessing  _you_ are Marianne," Penelope said, moving towards the woman on the couch, who had half-turned to see them and was apparently going to town on all that French toast. "I'm-"

"Penelope Garcia," she said after a whole lot of swallowing. "And this is Derek Morgan, I assume - Spencer's told me so much, it's a pleasure to meet you both."

When she turned, she was smiling - she had a gap between her front teeth, eyes as big as Reid's but twice as dark, and one hell of a lot of burns scars down the left of her neck and arm, disappearing under her acid green tank top.

"I'd stand, but I left my leg in the bedroom," she said, holding out a hand. "Marianne Goodwin."

How Reid had managed to find himself a girl that good looking, who'd served overseas, judging on those burn scars and the missing leg, and the way her eyes were flicking between Derek's gun and the door, Derek had to know.

"How is it we know nothing about you, if you know all about us?"

"Oh, you know how it is," she said breezily, smiling again when Spencer sat beside her with a huge mug of coffee in his hands. "You sign up for some dangerous overseas work and half your life ends up redacted, so your boyfriend can't even talk about you to his friends."

Redacted overseas meant counter-terrorism, given that she didn't have the body type or the hypervigilance for a Marine, and that made her dating Reid  _even more_ interesting.

 

 

 


	2. May 2009

The next time Marianne let herself into Spencer's apartment, there was blood spattered on the collar of her pale blue blouse and settled into the whorls of her scars.

"I can't talk about it outside of a Bureau approved counselling session," she told him, letting him take her gun and hang it on the bed, very firmly not letting her hands shake as he started undressing her, unbuttoning her blouse with long, careful fingers and going from there. "But I would really, really like it if you'd come shower with me. Please."

Marianne had always been good at controlling her microexpressions - it came from growing up with a father like Professor Goodwin - and she kept her face perfectly calm, almost serene, until Spencer had stripped down and joined her in the shower. Then she leaned into his arms, tucking her head under his chin, and let him take her weight. She hated showering because it was hard to manage unless she used a shower stool, but when she was staying over, Spencer always made a point of showering with her, because he could help.

"He was twenty-two years old," she whispered, barely louder than the shower spray on her back. "He was twenty-two, studying at Georgetown, and he'd gotten tangled up with some bad people, and-"

Spencer had heard whispers about a bomb scare downtown, but nothing had been confirmed - not until Marianne had turned up with her eyes slightly off-focus and her hands rigid at her sides. She always kept just a little too still until he got her in the shower.

The blood washed away in a whirl of pinked suds, rinsing down the plughole as the whole story spilled out. Spencer gently washed Marianne down from head to toe, letting her lean on his shoulders when he knelt to wash her leg and foot, making sure to get all the soap out of the deep scarring behind her knee, and didn't speak.

"He was holding my arm," she said when he stood back up. "He- I was talking him down. I almost had him, Spencer, I'd almost  _saved_ him, and then that  _asshole_ made the call, and-"

Marianne's unit chief had a zero-tolerance policy, and a tendency to call for a kill shot where others might mediate. She hated him, because of that and because he'd been placed as unit chief for political reasons despite having no overseas experience whatsoever.

That was probably a hangover from the Professor, too. Spencer knew better than to mention Marianne's father, ever, but he was an ever-present ghost haunting her every interaction with authority figures. He couldn't blame her for that. He'd never much liked the Professor, either.

"It wasn't your fault," he said quietly, helping her to turn so he could rinse out her hair. "You did all you could, and-"

"I should have done more," she insisted, tipping her head back into the water. "I could have saved that boy, Spencer. I could have-"

"Statistically speaking-"

"No statistics," she said. "Skin, Spencer. Hold me. Please."

She'd been worse about witnessing death since she came back from overseas - combat fatigue, PTSD, whatever you wanted to call it, Marianne had it. She'd grieved for every death she saw before, but since the accident, she'd shut down every time she saw someone die. Just for a day or two, sometimes not even that long, but a steaming hot shower and skin-to-skin contact always seemed to draw her back to herself.

"I love you," she said tiredly. "Thank you."

They stayed until the water started to cool, and then he helped her out so she could sit on the stool he always kept nearby for when she visited and needed a shower, and he wrapped her up in two big towels - one for her body, one for her hair - and dried himself off as quickly as he could, so he could get back to help her before she got cold.

"Come on," he said, catching her scarred arm over his shoulders and winding his arm around her waist, "let's get you dried off, and into bed, huh?"

She nodded, leaning on him more heavily than she usually would, and let him help her to the bedroom, let him dry her off, let him rub the lavender-scented into her scars while she went to work with the hair dryer, and didn't speak.

"Do you have a t-shirt I can borrow?" she asked quietly, once her hair was dry and hanging satin-black down her shoulders and back. "I don't want- I want to smell like you. I don't want to smell like a burn victim."

She'd always hated the smell of lavender, but lavender oil was good for burn scars without being medicated - it just reminded her of the Professor's house, she said, and she hated anything that reminded her of her time at CalTech except him, as far as he could tell.

"Come to bed," she said, and even though it was only just after nine, he didn't object. He just lay down and let her curl against his back - something else that was new since she'd gotten home from overseas. The seam of her missing leg felt odd, tucked into the back of his knee, but her arm over his ribs was warm and solid and familiar, and she nuzzled her nose into the back of his neck just as she always had, right from they were sixteen. "I do love you, you know. Even if I hate all those statistics you spout when I just want comfort, or sex."

"You said my statistics were sexy last time we-"

"Maybe I was just playing to your ego, Doctor Reid," she teased, but her voice was soft and sleepy, a little bit of Boston creeping into her accent now that she was too tired to police it. "Shut up and go to sleep, Spencer. We can discuss whether or not you're sexy in the morning."

 

* * *

 

The whole apartment smelled of coffee when Marianne woke up - the bathroom floor was a little slippy when she went to the toilet, so she assumed Spencer had already showered for work. After that, it was just a case of getting a brush through her hair and finding a bra in her drawer, in case one of his friends dropped by.

"Morning," he said, blinking at her a little too much - which meant he'd just put in his contacts - and pointing to the coffee pot. "I've got decaf if you want?"

"Um, how long have you known me?" she said, pouring a cup of Spencer's black-as-sin coffee and taking the carton of hazelnut milk he held out with a smile. "Thank you. For last night."

His smile was a little confused, the way it always got when she tried to express just how grateful she was for his gentle kindness. He saw it as the right thing, and therefore the  _only_ thing, to do, but Marianne knew that plenty of people wouldn't think that way.

She could still see that kid's head burst open, could still feel blood and brain warm on her cheek and the unscarred side of her neck, but it was different now. Now, there was the warmth of a shower with Spencer, and the softness of his skin under his heavy comforter, and that was all the barrier she needed to get through today, and tonight, and back to work tomorrow.

"You're a good soul, Spencer Reid," she said, settling down on his worn-out couch and tugging the big, heavy afghan off the back and wrapping it over her legs. "Are you working today?"

"Afraid so," he said, blinking at a normal rate and smiling, sitting with his legs tucked under him so he could face her. "How are you feeling now?"

"Good," she assured him, taking one lovely hand and smiling at how odd they looked together, her skin so dark where it wasn't all twisted up and scarred, his so pale and  _skinny._ "You always help."

And that was why he'd hinted at her maybe moving in with him, but she'd resisted. She'd always resisted, because they both needed their own space, and because, well, neither of them were in the right place to live with someone else, not really.

And Spencer was a restless sleeper. Marianne's sleep schedule was medicated, so it was intensely regular, but Spencer's was just... All over the place. If they spent more than four nights together in the same bed, they ended up bickering and cranky with one another.

She knew they were just excuses, kind of, but even with how much good they'd do one another she knew it was really for the best that they live apart. She'd only been back in the States full time for six months, and that had changed everything about how they interacted. They'd never spent so long living in such close proximity since she left California, and she'd never lived in one place for this long in  _years,_ and-

"You know how you sometimes tell me I'm thinking too hard?" Spencer said, squeezing her hand. "You're doing that right now."

She smiled, feeling a little sheepish. "Sorry, sweetheart."

"Want to talk about it?"

"Want to stop profiling me?"

"Guilty," he admitted, hiding a smile in his coffee. "I just worry about you."

"And I love you for that," she told him, "but I really wish you wouldn't analyse my behaviour while you're doing it."


	3. To Hell... (...And Back)

"Tell me something, pretty boy," Derek said, slipping into the seat opposite Reid. It had been... It had been something, one of those cases that clung to your skin like a bad smell, lingering in your clothes and your hair and your soul until it felt like you'd never be free of it. If it was bad for him, he couldn't imagine how bad it must be for the kid, who couldn't  _ever_ forget. 

So, distraction time. Anything was better than that pig farm, especially making the kid think about his girl.

"Marianne?" Reid guessed, and even if he was bright red around the ears, he was smiling, which was a good start.

"Who's Marianne?" JJ asked, settling down next to Reid with a cup of coffee in her hands. "Have you got a  _girlfriend,_ Spence?"

Reid lifted his book up to hide his face, but Derek could still see his smile, and the blush in his ears. 

"On and off since we were sixteen," he said. "Her dad hates me. Her mom and her stepfather are great."

"How could her dad hate you?" JJ asked, forgetting that she was surprised about Reid having a girlfriend because the idea of Reid, the least threatening man in any room, being hated by a girl's father. The idea of Reid getting a girl in trouble was... Well, it was  _Reid._ "You're a great guy!"

"The Professor has control issues. He didn't like her having friends outside of his colleagues' kids, and I was... Not that."

Reid dropped his book, looking at them both all too knowingly. 

"Marianne and I met she came to CalTech," he explained. "Her father was my thesis advisor for my PhD in Mathematics, we met through him. She and I were sixteen."

It wasn't like Reid to not give lots and  _lots_ of unnecessary detail, which meant there was something he did not want to talk about. Derek wondered if his goddess could be convinced to do a thing - he'd ask her as soon as they got back to Quantico.

 

* * *

 

 

"You know how you thought that our boy wonder's unusual quietude was, you know, unusual?"

Derek tilted his head, smiling just enough to let her know she was on the verge of rambling. Okay. Moving on.

"Marianne Rebekah Baumgart-Goodwin, born December eighteenth, nineteen-eighty-one, to Doctor Judith Liesel Baumgart and Doctor Alasdair Marcus Goodwin. Parents divorced when she was seven, dad moved out west to take up a post as a professor of Mathematics at CalTech, mom stayed in Boston because  _she_ had been offered a post at Harvard, lecturing in Hebrew Studies, where she met her second husband, Doctor Benjamin Rosenthal, who taught at Harvard Law."

"Charmed life," Derek said, and Penelope was inclined to agree - from everything she'd found on Reid's girl, she'd lived happily with her mother and stepfather until she was sixteen, but that was for later. "What else?"

"Miss Marianne grew up with Mom, which caused a lot of court battling with Dad - he wanted full custody so that he could push her academically, because, and trust me on this, girl is like, Reid-level smart. Her mother held her back, though, something to do with wanting to give her a chance at a normal childhood and adolescence, but by the time she was sixteen, there wasn't anything else she could learn at high school, so she followed Dad out west and started a degree in Mathematics - from what I can tell, it was mostly because there'd be no weird guardianship finagling if she went to Harvard or Caltech, since she was a minor?"

"Makes sense," Derek agreed. "Reid mentioned once or twice about being babysat on campus. If Miss Marianne's dad was in the same building as her all the time, who'd say she wasn't safe?"

"Uh, her mom, for one," Penelope said, bringing up the reason for the divorce. "Professor Goodwin had a  _mean_ temper, and took it out on his then-wife. Seems Doctor Baumgart was worried he'd take it out on their daughter, so she managed to convince CPS to stage regular home visits to check on Marianne's welfare."

"Wow. That's intense."

"You know, none of you ever ran a background check on Will when he and JJ started dating."

Spencer looked tired, his tie tugged loose and his fingers drumming on the strap of his satchel. Penelope felt more than a little guilty.

"We just worry is all," she said, standing up and-

"You could  _ask,"_ he pointed out. "Marianne's in Seattle for work, but I know she'd like to go out and get to know you better."

 

* * *

 

 

Of course, the next day, the whole world went to hell, and Marianne figured that it would be rude to go out with Spencer's friends without Spencer, so they put it off for a while.

 

 


	4. Faceless, Nameless

Spencer had come to stay over, because the case he'd been on was so horrific he couldn't even talk about it. He just showered for the better part of an hour, swallowed the soup she made him as if he didn't even taste it, and then he curled up in bed so she could wrap herself around him. 

She'd always been the big spoon - even the first time they slept together, back in her big, airy bedroom in the Professor's house in Pasadena, in a big bed with a duckdown quilt and sheer drapes over the windows to let in the breeze, he'd curled up so she could wrap her arms and legs around him, with his face tucked against her neck and those long hands pressed flat to her back. Since coming home from overseas, since losing her leg, she'd felt like she wasn't really up to the task, but Spencer had gotten good at tucking himself under her left leg and pressing his face to her neck so that part of his cheek was against her scars, so she didn't feel like he was avoiding them (hard, with his hands smoothed over her back, or his chest pressed to the wreck of her breasts), but nuzzling his nose to the unscarred skin of her throat so she could really  _feel_ it.

She woke up alone, though, and the bathroom was still a little steamy and there was a fresh pot of coffee in the kitchen, so she figured he hadn't been gone long. She had today off, had all week off because she had a whole bunch of hospital appointments for her scars and her breasts and a new prosthetic to get through, and it was simpler to just take a few days off and do them all together, and Spencer should have had today off after being away on such a tough case, but he'd obviously been called in. 

Last time she'd lived in DC, it had only been for three months, so she hadn't had a chance to figure out Spencer's schedule - her own was pretty simple now, she hadn't been cleared for field duty and probably wouldn't be, ever, between her leg and the way her scars limited her mobility, and probably would even after she had some of them removed, so she was on a strict nine-to-five, barring emergencies that required her expertise.

When they needed someone to talk down a suicide bomber or ideologue, in other words. That PhD in psychology was coming back to bite her in the ass all the damn time the past six weeks or so, cutting into her rehab time, her time with Spencer, stealing away her weekends so she couldn't visit Mom and Benjamin. It was good work - amazing work, she was making a real difference, and was in a lot less danger than she had been overseas, or even than she had been in the New York office or in LA, but it still felt unfair. She'd already lost so much to this damn job, and they'd given her a desk job as a reward... And then taken back that reward, because her damn doctorate was just too valuable.

"I'm going to find a teaching job," she grumbled at the potted rose Mom had given her as a housewarming gift. It was one of those weird hybrids, the same purple that Spencer used to wear all the time, and it left the sweetest scent in the kitchen whenever Spencer wasn't around, drowning out the smell of everything else with the tar he called coffee. "And when I do, I'll have weekends off to visit Mom and Ben, and I can pick up _hobbies._ Maybe I'll even learn to cook - when was the last time Spencer or me actually cooked a meal for one another?"

When she had eaten, and showered, and fully woken up, she was a little embarrassed to have been talking about her life to her pot plant. 

 

* * *

 

 

"Looking good," the doctor said. "Going on your latest round of tests, the reconstruction surgery is a very distinct possibility in the near future - a little more time with your dermatologist, though. To make sure the scarring is healed fully, even the deep scarring."

Marianne rolled her eyes, pulling back on her bra - one of those ugly mastectomy bras, because even if she hadn't had an actual mastectomy, the scarring had left her in more or less the same condition as if she had done - and then her shirt before hopping down off the table. The docs here in DC were much nicer and more considerate than the medical team had been overseas ( _Say "in Iraq," Marianne,_ her therapists voice echoed in her head,  _stop distancing yourself from your trauma, it won't help_ ), but she supposed that was understandable. The doctors here had the time and space and lack of artillery attacks necessary to give each patient a quiet, calm environment in which to heal, whereas the medics back overseas were more or less operating one big emergency room, all the time.

"So I'll have boobs for Christmas?" she said, straightening her hem and scooping up her purse. "Because honestly, doc, they'd do a lot for my self-esteem."

Spencer had done a lot for her self-esteem, too, but it was unhealthy to base your self-image completely on one person's perception. Even someone as perceptive as Spencer.

And then her phone rang.

 

* * *

 

 

Reid's girl was pacing in the waiting area when Derek came to look for news about the kid - in those boots, she was just about as tall as Reid, and looked a lot better rested than she had the last time Derek'd seen her.

"Well hello, Miss Marianne," he said, putting up his hands when she spun and her hands went for the gun on her hip. "Fancy seeing you here."

"They wouldn't- All they said was that Spencer was hurt," she said, her hands scary-still at her sides and a muscle in her jaw tick-tick-ticking away. "What happened to him, Derek Morgan? What did you let happen to him?"

"Hey now," he said, crossing his arms. "We didn't  _let_ anything happen to him-"

"Spencer is a capable field agent," she cut in. "He's smart and he's a better shot than anyone gives him credit for, and he's a lot stronger and fitter than he gives himself credit for, but he has the self-preservation instincts of a goddamn chicken. So I'll ask again.  _What did you let happen to him?"_

"He got between the UnSub and his target. Took a bullet to the knee. He's going to be fine, Goodwin, you know he is."

"I don't- I don't know  _anything_ right now," she said, digging into her enormous purse to take out a card. "Call me as soon as he's out of surgery, I have to- I have to go. I have to  _go."_

She pressed the card into his hand and took off before he could say no, wait, _Hotch is dying downstairs,_ and he was left wondering just how long ago Reid's girl had picked up all those physical scars, because she sure as hell hadn't healed up psychologically.

 

* * *

 

"Hey, asshole," Spencer heard as he drifted awake.  _No narcotics,_ he thought, horrified by the too-familiar warmth and numbness of everything but Marianne's tight grip on his hand. "Come on, Spencer, wake up. Let me know you're okay."

He opened his eyes, more or less, and turned his head to look at her. She'd been crying, and her cheeks were still hot when she raised his hand up to kiss it. 

"I was so afraid when they told me you'd been hurt, Spencer," she said softly, shifting her chair closer. "I thought- I was so sure-"

"Hey," he said, patting the bed beside him - trust Marianne to stay on his right side, away from his bad leg, so she could climb up beside him and tuck herself around him without hurting him. "I'm fine - I have a couple of screws in there but I am  _good."_

She leaned up so her mouth was at her ear, and if he wasn't kind of high right now he would be  _so_ into that. 

"It doesn't count if there's a medical purpose," she whispered, stroking her fingers up and down his throat. "You're still on track, Spencer, I promise."

She'd know - she'd been drugged into oblivion just to get her home from overseas, and he knew that had been hard on her. She'd assured him that she'd squared everything with her sponsor, and he knew better than to ask, so he'd left her to her own devices. He'd trusted her, just like she trusted him.

"You look really hot today," he told her, feeling really sleepy. "I like your boots."

"No sex until your leg heals up," she whispered, and he could feel her smiling against his ear. "Not unless we get  _really_ creative."

Spencer's mind bloomed with all kinds of creative scenarios, and he fell asleep smiling.

 

* * *

 

 

Derek found Miss Marianne in the kid's room when he came back from sitting vigil with Hotch, just like he'd guessed he would. She was sitting by his bed, real leg crossed over the prosthetic and a book in some language that wasn't English in her hands.

"Hebrew," she said, noticing his look, smiling a little as she took off her glasses. "My mom's a professor of Hebrew Studies, I'm Jewish and a genius - it was the second language I learned, after English. First was Latin."

Yep, definitely Reid's kind of girl.

"I'm sorry about earlier," she said, marking her place in the book with what looked a lot like an AA coin. But that wasn't any of his business. "I didn't mean to- to snap at you like that. PTSD. Sorry."

"Wanna talk about it?"

"Can't," she said, shrugging. "Counter-terrorism, remember? It's all confidential. But I, uh, I lost my whole team when I lost my leg. All six of us were travelling together with two Marines as an escort, and I was the only one to get out. Ten months ago. I spent four in hospital, then three as an outpatient in a physical therapy centre here in DC. I've only been back to work three months. Desk job, because they can't send me into the field anymore."

"Well," Derek said, pulling up the other chair and settling in with his coffee, "you ever want to talk around it, just let me know."


	5. September 2009

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spencer is shaky, but not for the reasons he initially thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired a little by 11.11 Entropy, which watched last night and from which I don't think I'll ever recover.
> 
> Doesn't fit anywhere particularly in the show timeline, and once I get back to episodic chapters I'll rearrange accordingly. For now, enjoy.

"It isn't schizophrenia, Spencer."

Marianne had been watching Spencer for signs of an early schizophrenic break since they were seventeen. She'd watched him so closely for so long that she knew his every habit and tic and twitch better than she did her own.

This? This wasn't schizophrenia.

"This is addiction, Spencer," she said bluntly, settling herself across his hips and pressing her palms hard to his skinny chest. She knew the signs, the tremors and aching that came with the really strong cravings, the ones that crept up on you when you were tired and sore and you just didn't have the strength in that moment to say an outright _no._  "This is you letting your cravings get the better of you."

"I'm not- I don't-"

"You're not," Marianne agreed. "I know that, Spencer, I promise I do - but you know that this isn't schizo. I know you're scared, hon, I  _know-"_

And she did know. God, did she know - she'd been there before Spencer, and after Spencer, and it had been because of her cried-out confessions over the phone while they were thousands of miles and too many timezones apart that he'd known the intricacies of a narcotics addiction before he'd ever had an addiction of his own. 

"I know," she said again, softer this time. "You're so strong, sweetheart, please don't- oh,  _Spencer-"_

Spencer cried in small shakes and bubbles, not quite sobs and not quite snuffles, and his hands always flexed like crazy when he was upset like this. Right now, they were resting against her thighs, tickling muscle on one side and catching on scars on the other. He'd been bottling this up for ages, if he was this upset, and Marianne hated that - she'd been up home in Boston two of the last six weekends, and working another two, and then there'd been paperwork, and studying, and trying to get her shit together and start on a thesis for college, and just... She hadn't seen him nearly as much as she'd wanted to, and she'd been so busy that she hadn't even noticed that he  _needed_ her.

"I hate this," he said, watery and thick, "I hate being so weak-"

"You're not weak, and don't you  _dare_ say that again."

If Spencer was weak, then Marianne was more or less useless, and she hadn't allowed herself to feel that way since the day she walked out of the Professor's house and CalTech. She'd gotten good at forcing herself to be her best self, and she'll be  _damned_ if she let Spencer get away with anything less.

"You're an addict," she said. "I'm an addict, Spencer, a bigger junkie than you've ever been."

"It's not just the- the drugs. It's- I'm not enough, Marianne. I'm not  _enough._ "

She didn't know what to say to that - Spencer had very specific, very deep-seated self-confidence issues, but he'd never questioned his  _worth_ before.

Marianne let her hands slide up his chest, over his shoulders, and settled herself against him. His skin was flushed, warm even through her tank top, and he shook so hard that even her weight couldn't keep him still.

"I know it isn't the schizophrenia," he said, "and I don't think it's the cravings, they feel different, they're harder than this-"

"Breathe for me, Spencer," she broke in, reaching up to pet his hair. She weighed more than the weighted blankets she ordered for him while she was overseas, but it shouldn't make too much different - the weight he was used to, combined with the familiarity of her body heat and the smell of her shampoo, it should be enough to pull him out of what must be an anxiety attack, if it wasn't the same sort of desperate cravings Marianne has to deal with sometimes. "C'mon, asshole, I've got you, I'm here, I have you-"


End file.
